


fire and powder

by langmaor



Category: Senjou no Valkyria | Valkyria Chronicles
Genre: Coming of Age, F/F, Minor Violence, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 18:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11560968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/langmaor/pseuds/langmaor
Summary: But the night is old, and her shoulders are heavy with the burden of maintaining her composure in the face of disdain.





	fire and powder

Isara's first memory is of trembling hands and a racing heart as she held out three flowers, complete with stem attached, to her brother. She remembers, distantly, how warm his hand had felt on her head, but what she can recall with the most clarity is the disapproving looks of the surrounding people, the outright anger on a few others, the scrunched up noses and the jeers.

Her cheeks grow hot and her vision blurry, and she points her face to the ground.

She stays away from him in public after that.

She's only six.

* * *

Selvaria's first memory is happy; it is perhaps her only one of the sort. She remembers a blue sky and the softness of her mother's chest as she rested her back on it. The soft chatter of her mothers is so ridiculously irrelevant and yet she can recite it word for word, doesn't have much more of her parents, her mothers, than these words, queries about the milk, about the rations, about the clothes.

She is but a child.

For now.

* * *

Isara can still remember the day that made her vow to never speak unless spoken to quite well. The laughter of the children around her is cruelty incarnate to her childish self, the boys at the back hooting 'I feel so sorry for Welkin!' and the girls scoffing indignantly.

She recalls the soft lapping of water along the edges of the lake she stops at on the way home, the lake that now holds her tears in it.

She tries not to hold her brother back any more than she can help it.

She tries.

* * *

Selvaria passes the remnants of her childhood being torn apart and pierced through. The blue light that surrounds her is a mockery of the sky of her old days, and her mothers' good-night kisses are replaced with the cold prick of a syringe.

She asks what she has done to deserve this.

She gets no answer.

* * *

Isara can't point out when exactly she had realized she could do anything for her brother. Isara knows, deep in her bones, in her blood, knows she would kill for her brother, and for a moment wonders if she's still quite sane.

Then she remembers the same ferocity, the determination, flashing through her father's eyes.

Isara also can't point out when she had come to know that while she would cross oceans for her brother, he would, at most, skip puddles for her. She doesn't resent him for it, knows he doesn't have it in him to dedicate his love to one person when he could share it with all of nature.

She doesn't resent him for it.

Maybe a little.

* * *

Selvaria can still remember the first time she had set eyes on Lord Maximilian. His gait is commanding, and he talks to her, tells her to fight for him, hands her a knife and leaves her in a whirl of fragrance and confusion.

She tries not to flinch when she feels the cold tip of the knife break the skin.

Death will be a welcome embrace.

* * *

Selvaria awakens the next day. She seems to have cheated death, and now her hair is grey, and the blue light seems to have found a home inside her. There is a lance and a shield she is given, and the voices of her ancestors nearly break her to the point of unconsciousness.

She cries that night, her last night in the place.

* * *

Selvaria is unaccustomed to being taken care of, which shows quite blatantly when she is taken to Lord Maximilian's palace. But her Lord provides her with three lavish meals a day, and corrects her when she uses a spoon where a fork is required, buys her clothes and books and what more could she ask for, really? All he asks in return is her strength.

She tries to ignore the screams of her foremothers whenever she nears the lance and shield.

* * *

They meet on the battlefield, but neither have drawn any weapons. It's well into the night, and the moon is barely enough illumination to go by.

Selvaria begins speaking, terse, "I mean no harm to your side."

Isara considers her options carefully, calculating the many ways this could go wrong. "Neither do I."

"Let us make this middle ground, then. We are neither Gallians or Imperials for now."

Isara feels her heart skip a beat. This proposal is downright stupid, can lead to the either of them getting stabbed in the back, and she should most definitely turn around and inform her brother of this chance of denting the Imperial Army's forces.

But the night is old, and her shoulders are heavy with the burden of maintaining her composure in the face of disdain. Her heart aches for a moment of respite.

"I agree," is what comes out her mouth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This has been incomplete and in my drafts for quite a while now. Sorry if you were expecting a more fleshed out relationship, really. That's what I wanted to write but it's been so long since I played the game I don't think I can continue this in the near future! Thank you for reading anyways!


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